


Want Take Have

by thestarsjustblinkforus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsjustblinkforus/pseuds/thestarsjustblinkforus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s been nearly three months since the first time they touched each other, and how they’ve managed to have semi regular sex without A) ever trying to determine what it is, what this <b>thing</b> is, and B), everyone finding out about it, is the closest he’s ever come to believing in miracles...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want Take Have

Sex with Combeferre is intense in a bone shaking way that makes him feel like he’s been lifted out of his body, brought to the ceiling, and then slammed back down into it and he lies there on the bed or the couch or the floor or against the wall quivering with the aftershocks and unable to do or think or say  _anything_  for an embarrassingly long amount of time. 

He’s had good sex (with himself, mostly) and bad sex (again, with himself. Mostly) and it's some kind of sweatysexy mash up of the two.  _Good_  (No,  ** _Jesus_** ,  _fucking_ ** _great_** ) because his orgasms leave him blind and gasping like a fish out of water which is a lot more pleasant than it sounds, and  _bad_  because he can’t seem to stop  _doing_ ,  _wanting_ ,  _begging_  for it, and the last thing he needs is to get addicted to a person again. He’s mostly conquered his obsession with Enjolras, has at least stopped drawing the fucker on every available surface, and this  _thing_  with Combeferre… it’s starting to feel familiar in a way that makes him think he should maybe be cautious, should maybe hold back a little, but he kind of doesn't fucking want to. At all. So he shows up at odd hours in odd places at odd times asking with his eyes and grasping with his fingers the second they’re alone like he’s a fucking junkie again and Combeferre’s dealing in, like,  _illicit cock_.

Which he never hesitates to give to him.  

Ever.

Which makes him wonder if he’s a little addicted to this  _thing_  too, because all he has to do is give him a  _Look_  and Combeferre turns on his heel without a word. It took only once for him to realize he is meant to follow when he does that. When he hadn’t that first time he’d stood in the hall of the hospital with interns and doctors swarming around him feeling like he was going to vomit for making such a huge fucking mistake by showing up and had been about to leave when Combeferre’s head had popped out of the storage closet he’d disappeared into with a look on his face like,  _what are you doing out there? Come._

And he did.

Twice.

It’s been nearly three months since the first time they touched each other, and how they’ve managed to have semi regular sex without A) ever trying to determine what it is, what this  _thing_  is, and B), everyone finding out about it, is the closest he’s ever come to believing in miracles. 

Although, to be honest, “A” speaks more to the fact that Combeferre seems to be following his lead on this and he’s sure as fuck not gonna broach the topic himself because, as previously stated, Combeferre is  _really really good in bed_ , and he doesn’t want to  _not be enjoying that_ anymore, and the second they actually talk about it he’s going to realize what a bad idea it is and put an end to it. Especially when Grantaire proves to be incapable of talking about it without being flippant or crass or both and the thought of Combeferre looking at him the way Enjolras looks at him makes him shrivel up inside and want to die, so no, nuh uh, fuck right the fuck off please and thank you. 

And “B”…

Well.

There’s no other explanation.  _Fucking miracle._

-/-/-/-

He’d never really thought about Combeferre all that much before this started. He'd liked him immediately from the moment they'd met because it's kind of impossible  _not_  to, but apart from a handful of friendly conversations about random bullshit here and there he wouldn't have called them  _close._ Combeferre was just… Combeferre. Hot without seeming to realize it or care (which admittedly made him even hotter). Scary brilliant. Kind as fuck. Articulate and considerate and polite and  _excruciatingly_  together _Combeferre_. “I got this” should be inscribed on his tombstone because there is nothing he can’t handle or figure out or  _fix_ , which is why when he saw him out in the hallway of the back room where they hold their meetings sitting on the floor with his hands fisted in his hair and his forehead against his knees he’d stumbled on the stairs, paused with his hand on the railing like he’d come across some mythical creature that would startle if he moved.

He’d been late because he’s always late and he hadn’t really been hurrying, but he did have some flyer sketches for Enjolras that he was kind of proud of in a  ** _See,_** _I_ ** _can_** _be helpful, you asshole,_  kind of way and he was a little excited to show them. But then he saw Combeferre not in the meeting. He saw his glasses next to him on the floor beside his phone and the lenses were flecked and when Combeferre looked up at him his eyes were red and he looked thisclose to falling over with the kind of exhaustion that comes from  _sobbing_  and… he didn’t know what to do…

So he just… continued up the stairs and sat down beside him. He sat down beside him and he didn’t say a word and Combeferre put his forehead back on his knees, wrapped his arms around his legs pressed up against his chest like a little kid and he wasn’t crying anymore but his breathing was shaky and after a moment he’d said, his voice thick, soft, “Could you…”

And Grantaire had had to lean closer.

“Could you hold me for a minute…”

And he didn’t hesitate. He’d scooted his butt across the short distance between them and put his arms around him as best he could in such an awkward position and they’d stayed like that for a while until Combeferre murmured, “Ok” and started to get up.

Grantaire had wordlessly handed him his glasses and his phone as they stood and Combeferre had asked, “Can you give me a second?” and he’d mumbled, a “Yeah, yeah, I’ll just… I’ll go in, you… take your time…”

He’d slid into his usual seat beside Bossuet and a few minutes later Combeferre had come in looking just as calm and collected as he’d ever seen him. Like nothing had happened at all. Enjolras had placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently just once as he claimed his seat beside him, apologized for being late, and then took out his laptop while simultaneously launching into an overview of some research he’d been doing about  _blah diddy blah blah_  and what the fuck Combeferre, you were just  _crying alone in the hallway…_

At the break he’d followed him to the rest room and Combeferre had looked up into the mirror as he'd entered. He'd met his eyes in his reflection as he stood there behind him not knowing why he was even  _there_ , why he had followed him in the first place because it wasn’t like he could  _do_  anything, and again, they weren't even particularly  _close_ , but he had wanted to see if he was okay. He really  _really_  hadn't liked the idea of Combeferre not being  _ok._ It was fucking with his whole understanding of right and wrong and time and space and he just… 

He stepped in a little closer, got out a "Hey" and an “Are you” before Combeferre suddenly turned and pushed him back into one of the stalls and  _kissed_  him.  _Really_  hard, really…  _hungrily,_  and as shocked as he had been that hadn’t prevented him from kissing him back like it was something he’d been waiting for, something he wanted desperately when truth be told he’d only ever really imagined Enjolras like this, having him like this... But it had felt good. It had felt really really fucking good and Combeferre had been making these  _noises_  against his mouth, these delicious little  _mmphs_  that made his knees shake and he’d dropped down to them without thinking about the consequences because he’s always been bad about that, has always been more  _want take have_  than a _ssess ascertain_ and _cautiously proceed_ and Combeferre had slammed one hand against the stall door, the other grasping Grantaire’s hair and holding on, his hips vibrating in Grantaire’s hands as he took him into his mouth like this was a completely fucking normal sequence of events…

When it was over Grantaire had gotten dazedly back to his feet and stood face to face with him with a pounding heart and twitching hands that wanted to  _touch,_  that wanted  _more._  He'd thought about kissing him again, about being _kissed_  again, and saw that Combeferre had bitten his lip so hard there was  _blood_. He’d reached past him to grab some toilet paper and he’d held it gently to his lower lip, felt his breath warm on his knuckles as they continued to just…  _look_  at each other... until Combeferre noticed how hard he was and then took care of that pretty fucking efficiently not once breaking eye contact as Grantaire smacked his own hands against the wall on either side of Combeferre's head and bit his own lip against releasing a litany of strangled curses because,  _Jesus_ , before he crumpled against him like a marionette with cut strings. Eventually they'd stumbled out of the bathroom and back down the hall to where the meeting had picked up again without them.

Combeferre had gone in first that time.

He’d needed a minute. 

He waited two days before seeking him out at the hospital. He hadn’t gone looking for a second round, it had never occurred to him that there would  _be_ one, that Combeferre would  _want_  that because what had happened had obviously been an  _in the moment_ thing, a  _I need to be somewhere else_  thing. 

He went because he had typed and deleted 20 texts knowing any response he was going to get electronically would be from composed “I got this” Combeferre and he didn’t want him to feel like he  _had_  to be, like he did “have it” if he really didn’t because he'd never actually answered the  _are-you-ok_  question, and  _kissing_  him like that,  _letting him do what he did_ , and  _doing what he did back_ ,was not  _normal Combeferre behavior_.

So he went to the hospital. He went to clarify that he was, y’know. There. For him. In any way he needed him to be because he was beginning to wonder who took care of Combeferre when he was so busy taking care of everyone else. Not that he’d thought he’d be a good candidate for taking care of  _anyone_ , but he’d had the time and the inclination. A little bit. Maybe. 

Either way he’d had no sexytime ulterior motives.

None.

He was being a friend. To his friend. 

Who had a really fantastic mouth and… other things.

When he’d finally found him he’d looked surprised to see him but had said “Hi” like he always did with his usual friendly smile. He looked perfectly fine, perfectly normal.  No more tired than usual, no lingering sadness behind his eyes, not even a  _hint_  of  _I came in your mouth and jerked you off less than 48 hours ago and how do we feel about that,_ so everything was apparently back in it’s place, which was fine, which was excellent, as long as Combeferre  _really was_ fine and not just putting up a front because Grantaire had learned at that meeting how easy it is for him to do it and he had been about to ask him, actually really  _ask_  this time when his eyes had caught on the hickey peaking out from under the collar of his scrubs and the question had died on his lips, because  _his mouth had done_   _that_  and Combeferre had  _let_   _it_ and suddenly he was remembering everything in vivid detail and... He had looked up at him then, gave him a  _Look_  apparently (at least that’s what Combeferre had growled in his ear, “ _you_ ** _looked_** _at me…”,_  when he’d gasped between knee-melting kisses in the supply closet, a broom handle knocking against his spine, “ _why is this happeningGoddon’tstop…_ ”) and that’s when Combeferre’s eyes had  _darkened_  and then all of a sudden he was walking away and leaving Grantaire standing there like an idiot until he had kindly clued him in.

And ever since then they’ve fucked each other in pretty much every way they could think of, whenever and wherever they could. Sometimes at his apartment when Eponine was working late, sometimes at Combeferre’s when Courf was either in rehearsal for some godawful play they’d eventually all have to go to (and they did, and he’d sucked Combeferre off again in an empty hallway halfway through the first act), or having his own good time with someone (or someones) at theirs.  Sometimes they'd meet in the break room at the hospital with the door locked and the two of them behind the couch on the floor because there was a broken slat on the blinds and someone might see them thrusting in their clothes against each other and Grantaire whispering breathlessly in his ear, “Can’t you get fired for this...”

And Combeferre, answering with a searing kiss, breathing hot against his lips, “I’m on  _break_...  besides... Joly does this all the time with Bossuet... And so does-”

“Shh no one else here now, just us, jusssst...  ** _God_**...”

And it was good.

It  _is_  good.

It is  _so_  goddamn good (no,  ** _Jesus_** ,  _fucking_ ** _great_** ) because Combeferre… he  _knows things._ He  _knows_  how to completely make a mess of him, make him come apart at the seams with a string of garbled curses and nonsense falling from his lips as his whole body shudders and he holds him tight as he comes down, as he fights for breath and to  _see_  again, and he’s lying on top of Combeferre right now, he’s pinning him to his mattress right now with the collapsed weight of his body and he’s thinking as he rides out those aftershocks, trembling against his skin as Combeferre presses his lips to his forehead, one hand carding through his hair, the other cradling his shoulder blade suddenly all _gentle_ and shit, _I have never felt this close to anyone.._.

Which is usually the point where he gets the fuck out of there. Because that's what had happened the last time he found himself feeling like this, feeling like this mattered, like this wasn't just two friends who fucked each other when they were sad or bored or stressed or horny or whatever.

A few weeks ago they'd been in the break room again. It had been some ridiculous hour of the night/morning even he would have normally been asleep by, but Combeferre has  _Looks_ too and he'd given him one that night on his way out of the meeting and it was rare for Combeferre to signal  _first,_ so yes he _would_  stay up until an ungodly hour and take two buses for 20 minutes of whatever it is they're doing and _love it_ because Combeferre asking first means... things. Really really good ( _no,_ ** _Jesus_** _, fucking_ ** _great_** ) things.

Which turned out to be Combeferre falling asleep on him after a handful of slow sleepy kisses behind the couch.

And the thing was, the absolutely awful, gut twisting thing _was_  was that he hadn't minded. He hadn't minded that it was almost 4 in the morning and he was lying on a carpet that smelled like mortality and Cup-a-Soup, miles away from his warm bed with maybe ten minutes left before Combeferre's break was over and Combeferre had his arms around him and his open mouth was against his throat and he may have been drooling a little on his t-shirt and he _hadn't minded._  

And when he’d realized it, that he liked the way their bodies fit this way too, and that he'd actually _miss it_ when this was all over, he’d started quietly freaking out until Combeferre woke, his inner alarm clock scarily on target as always. He’d groaned against his neck when he realized he’d fallen asleep, muttered a _sorry_ and kissed him and Grantaire hadn't responded. At all. Normally he was the grabbiest grabber of all the grabbers but he just... laid there beneath him. And Combeferre had looked down at him for a moment, his face expressionless. And then he got up without a word. He held out his hand for Grantaire who took it but couldn't look at him as he got to his feet, and for the first time it was awkward. All the things they'd done to each other and 15 minutes of _sleep_ was _awkward_.

He didn’t come to him for nearly two weeks after that, and Combeferre didn't approach him either until one night they had been the last two standing after an evening of heavy drinking at the Corinth and neither of them could say who started it but they ended up mauling each other in the alley outside next to the dumpster. Combeferre walked him home and they didn't touch each other the whole way and they didn't talk about it and they didn't kiss. Grantaire had just peeled off when they reached his apartment and Combeferre had continued on to his.

Two days later they were on again and have been since, although this is the first time they've been in Combeferre's bed in a while, and he murmurs, hesitantly, his arms around him but feeling like they could be gone at a moment’s notice if that's what he wants, “Courf’s going home this weekend for his Grandmother’s birthday…”

Grantaire looks up at him and Combeferre is biting his lip hard enough to draw blood again, eyes closed and a little tense beneath him like he's just waiting for Grantaire to push himself off of him and r _un run run_ again. And he searches himself but the urge just... isn't there this time. Which is so very dangerous because this was never supposed to be anything more than what it's been. Just... fucking around. Stress relief for Combeferre and boredom control for him so he doesn't do anything stupid again.

This isn't supposed to be _this_. This isn't supposed to be lying in bed tangled up in each other long after they've both finished and just... _being_ with each other, _holding_ each other and maybe talking about _weekends..._  

His whole life has been wanting things he can't have, _yearning_ for things he's not good enough or smart enough or talented enough or good looking enough to actually _have_ and so he's gotten into the habit of convincing  himself he never really wanted them anyway. He wouldn't have known how to _begin_ to actually ask for something like this and here Combeferre is... maybe offering it to him even though he was such a dick the last time they'd stumbled into this territory.

But Combeferre isn't stumbling now. He's taking a deliberate step. He's  _leaping_ knowing what he knows about Grantaire, and his eyes are still closed, he's still biting that lip, that luscious lower lip, waiting for Grantaire to either come with him or leave him to fall on his own and Grantaire doesn't want to _want_ but he does, he does so much it hurts and he helplessly dips his head, because _want take have_ , and he nips at the other side of his lip, _give me that,_ and then he whispers in his ear, trying not to sound as terrified as he is, "Awesome", and then they don’t say anything after that except  _yes_  

and  _more_  

and  _please_  

and  ** _God_** _…_


End file.
